Rose Covered Arbor
by StoofinLunacy
Summary: In which a wedding puts things into perspective.


**AN: **I don't know what happened. One minute I'm feverishly(ish) working on the next installment of my fic "Falling Backwards", the next thing I know … this.

For those who have been following Falling Backwards, do not fear - I am still very much in love with that fic, and am steaming along with the next chapter. This … I don't even know how to explain this. It just … happened. Like, fifteen minutes ago.

**Disclaimer: **All belongs to Ryan Murphy and friends. None is owned by me.

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><p><strong>Rose-Covered Arbor<br>**

It was a picturesque ceremony.

The outdoor venue was done up with all the artistic flair befitting the most fanciful of occasions. Silver ribbons attached to wispy chiffon draped perfectly along the backs of every white fold-up chair in the assembly; the bows swayed in the slight breeze blowing softly from the west. The guests seated in the chairs were talking quietly amongst each other, dressed in their very best. Their whispered conversations and quiet murmurs were back-dropped by the whimsical plucking of three harpists, who were seated off to one side, their impressive instruments glittering in the midday sun. Garlands of delicate lilies lined a makeshift aisle; a white carpet, made specially for the occasion, parted the sea of chairs right down the middle. A large, arched arbor stood where the white carpet ended, its sides almost completely covered in budding, white and yellow roses.

Beneath the arbor stood two men: one, the officiator, a round-bellied fellow with warm crinkled eyes and an even warmer smile. When he spoke, it was a quiet rumble, full of good humor and fondness for life. The second man was much younger than the first, slimmer, more lean. He was wearing a simple black suit that became him perfectly, with a white rose pinned to his lapel. His hands were a jumbled mess, constantly in motion; curling together in front of him, twitching reflexively beside him, raising to fix his hair almost obsessively.

The officiator, noticing the nervous behavior, laughed genially and clapped the young man on the shoulder. He had been doing this job a long time, and had found that no matter the location, the budget or the couple, the beginning was always the same.

Kurt Hummel took in a deep breath, let it out slowly. The yellow tie about his neck felt constricting, too hot; he resisted the urge to loosen it. He could hear the murmurs of the crowd, could detect a few familiar laughs, though he dared not turn back to look. Instead he stared forward, shoulders straight, back stiff, hands sweaty and shaking, though resting motionless at his sides. His heart was thumping a frantic beat against his throat, his legs nearly quavering with the desperate need to release some of Kurt's pent-up stress. The ring in his pocket was a heavy presence against his thigh, a burning reminder of the life he had lived up until this very moment.

A breeze swept against the lily garlands just as the harpists switched songs. Their hands moved elegantly against the multi-colored strings, and an unmistakable march filled the early spring air. The guests immediately quieted, craning their necks in anticipation. The officiator, with his book clasped in hand, focused his attention on the opposite end of the aisle with a welcoming smile, and Kurt, feeling light-headed with the knowledge of what was soon to come, turned his head to the left, and felt his entire world instantly narrow down onto one being.

A hazel-eyed gaze, a brilliantly full smile, and Kurt forgot the rest of the world existed. He watched through rapidly welling eyes, fought against a thickening throat, as Blaine strolled his way down the white carpet, eyes never veering, never wavering, not a single sign of doubt in his euphoric expression.

Blaine reached the other two beneath the arbor, his smile turned dazzling, and Kurt, overcome, felt a sob rise into his throat. A warm hand slipped into his, and he gripped it tightly. Kurt wanted to duck his head, to take a moment to return his composure, but couldn't bring it within himself to tear his eyes from the man who had been his world - his everything - since he was seventeen years old.

The ceremony began. The officiator spoke to the crowd, spoke of the beauty of love, and how it came in all different forms. He talked about the dedication and commitment necessary to keep that love flourishing, and promised the raptly attentive audience that he had rarely come across a couple so devoted, so cherishing of that love, as the two men standing in front of him.

Kurt heard the words, could see the officiator talking, but none of it made much sense to him. It was as though he was hearing everything through a haze; the words got stuck, somewhere between his ears and his brain, turned them fuzzy, made it impossible for him to compute them. Of course, it didn't matter whether he could follow along to what the large-bellied man was saying: all that mattered was the look sparkling in Blaine's eyes, the wide berth of the smile spread across his features, and the hand tightly gripping onto Kurt's, anchoring him to the spot, reminding him to breathe.

The officiator turned to Blaine. "If you will repeat after me."

Blaine tilted his head to the right, quirked an eyebrow, and grinned his readiness. Kurt saw the look, caught the love blazing in those treasured eyes, and felt the tears begin to fall.

"I, Blaine Jeffrey Anderson -"

"I, Blaine Jeffrey Anderson …"

Kurt's breathing hitched on the inhale, got caught on the exhale, stuttered out between a sob and a gasp. The grip on his hand intensified, a reassuring smile was sent his way, and Kurt clung to it - to the notion, that all would be well so long as a smile was directed his way - desperately, willed himself to keep it together, to not fall to pieces now.

"Do take thee, Robert Paul Young -"

Another hitched breath, not from Kurt's place in the row of crowded white chairs, but from the two men facing each other underneath the rose-covered arbor. Kurt could see Blaine's eyes glistening from his spot four rows back. His voice, which always managed to carry so easily thanks to his high school years performing to enthusiastic crowds, was thick and full of emotion as he gazed into the eyes of the man before him, and promised with a solemnity that shattered Kurt's long ago broken heart into a million shards, "Do take thee, Robert Paul Young …"

A tremble ran through Kurt then, a small shiver beginning where his heart used to be, and coursing down his arms, through the fingers of his hands. Rachel, the one who was gripping Kurt's hand so tightly her knuckles were white, her expression caught somewhere between fiercely disappointed and inexplicably sad, felt the trembling, and flickered a glance in Kurt's direction. Her eyes were swimming, her look full of remorse and understanding. She had been through this same scene before, after all, except the backdrop had been a church in Lima, and not a garden in upstate New York. Two years ago, _she _had been the one shaking and sobbing and crumbling to nothing, while Kurt had been the supportive hand.

It was only fair she returned the favor now.

When the couple beneath the arbor exchanged rings, Kurt swallowed down a lump tasting largely of regret. When they kissed, he looked away. When they walked back down the aisle, holding hands as newly declared spouses, Kurt chanced a look again. Blaine was beaming; tears were leaking from the corners of his hazel eyes as he brought the hand of his new husband up to his lips. When he walked past Kurt's row, amid the claps and cheers and calls of well wishes, he didn't glance once in Kurt's direction.

Something feeling very much like hope died within Kurt that day.

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><p>A few months later, when their busy Broadway schedules finally allowed it, Kurt and Rachel met up for dinner at one of their most painfully favored restaurants. To Rachel, it was the place Finn had taken her to in an attempt to woo her back when they were just teenagers. To Kurt, it was the one where a twenty-three-year-old him and a twenty-two-year-old Blaine finally decided their lives had been pulling them in different directions for far too long.<p>

"Do you regret it?" Rachel asked from behind her wine glass, her eyes curious, her expression compassionate. Kurt had asked her the same thing, once; two years ago, on the plane ride back from his step-brother's wedding. To the Rachel back then, the question had been harsh, a rubbing of salt on a too-fresh wound. She had yelled at Kurt, had cursed at him, had cried in his arms. Had raved about her dreams, her career, of her name on the marquee. Of the feeling of being on stage, of people applauding her, of being noticed on the streets.

The Rachel of now was wiser, understood the question better, felt the loss more acutely. She wondered if Kurt felt it, too.

For a moment, Kurt did not reply. He studied the light refracting from the wine in his glass, swirled it slowly around, took a sip. His eyes flittered around the tastefully decorated room, bypassed their fellow patrons, landed on a familiar table situated in a shadowy corner. He slipped a hand into a pocket of his slacks, felt his fingers brush against the cool metal of the engagement ring he had once upon a time planned to give to his high school sweetheart while sitting at that very table, but inevitably fell into a world-shifting conversation instead.

Kurt never did answer Rachel's question, and Rachel hadn't needed him to. They were very similar, in some respects. They had both been small-town kids with big-city dreams. They had been determined, and stubborn, and dedicated to their futures. They had escaped Ohio, escaped redundancy, escaped the life of Midwestern regret.

They had given their all, given up their everything, to see their names in lights. They had gained the fame, had made their fortunes, and were respected among their peers. They had done what many people never lived to achieve: they had picked their dreams when they were the ages of three and six respectively, and then lived to see them attained.

And all it took was a church in Lima, and a rose-covered arbor, for each of them to realize that, ultimately, they had chosen wrong.

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><p><strong>AN2: <strong>Yah. I know. Totally not my style, right? I honestly have no idea what took over my brain and made me write this ... this _anti-fluff _thing. Maybe too much caffeine?

Reviews are always appreciated, but don't feel obligated. I'm not too sure about this ... whatever this is. Figured it'd be easier to fall asleep if I got it written down, though, so ... *shrug*.


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